Wednesday, 1 July 2009

SUMMER WITH STANISLAV

A MEMOIR

stanislav visitors have, come up in Scotland, best part of England, from Western Middle Lands. Is old chum and Mrs but fuck me, is pain in bastard arse. Drive down in stanislav lane ripping-up hedge with big fuck-off mobile home, not Winnebago or anything, just load of plywood and teak-effect plastic shoved inside big, noisy Citroen diesel van, banging and fucking clattering to wake the fucking dead, engine sound like someone shaking set of spanners inside biscuit tin – come in, mind your head, whoops, watch that step, look, looks like cupboard but press this handle and look...... is ok, work in a minute..... stick sometimes, have to take back to dealer and get fix, is only toothing trouble, three-piece suite and coffee table normally fold out from tiny little cupboard so guest and fellow campervanners can sit around in shorts, singing and having good time, like fucking Hitler Youth - cost forty fucking grand, honest, not invent, forty fucking grand, can buy stonking BMW and still stay in top jolly hotel for forty fucking grand and also not be driving about with shit cassette under feet.

Is call cassette but is shit bucket just as same. stanislav plumber is but draw fucking line at driving around in mobile toilet and need airfield to turn around in bastard thing. How would look in car crash, shit flying all over the shop and bog roll, only is not proper bog roll but that stuff, thin and cold, IZAL, good for fuck all, not even for wiping of arsehole which is supposed to be; every bastard with mobile home has IZAL toilet paper, only isn’t toilet paper but bad fucking joke, like in Viz magazine, or Jeyes, sometime is Jeyes but same old fucking rubbish is. What for you have this fucking rubbish ? Is bad enough take dump in van like fucking savage but then can’t even wipe rusty sheriff badge clean but instead smear shit all over bottom, like Jock, or finger go through and get all filthied-up with spread-out bit of shit, better would be with handful of grass from roadside and never mind IZAL trick bogroll. Manufacturer of IZAL is rolling about on floor, laughing off bollocks at mobile home driver and boy scout. Fucking stuff medicated is called, IZAL Medicated, as though arse and fingers and underpant covered in shit is some kind of medicated.

Is all to do with weight, says chum, like was fucking Apollo mission and not rust-before-your-eyes plumber-van conversion, it’s lighter. Lighter? Is fucking rubbish is what it is. Is better off not wipe arse at all and hope for best and have good half hour in bidet at home than fuck about with IZAL. Can stay in Travelodge for nearly fuck all and take dog, Buster, and get breakfast…. Ah, but we were able to pull over by a lochside and smugly make a cup of smug tea and no milk because I am watching my cholesterol and I drink Redbush tea because I like to think that everytime I have a cuppa some money is going to those huge traditionally-built women in Botswanaland, even though it isn’t. So fucking what, is fucking Thermos flask in Tesco for fiver and not forty fucking grand. And not get disenfranchised in great arse-wiping democracy of Life.

And mould is growing all around windows, would be alright on narrow boat down canal with old codgers in waistcoat and moleskin trouser and kerchief round fucking neck like cunt, walk upside-down through fucking tunnel and stop at Black Country pub like was Fred fucking Dibnah and eat faggot and fucking pea, mould is quite decorative but rubbish all the same, never get mould growing on BMW. And can sleep, reclined, in shiny black Seven series bought for a few grand and park near public toilet - only not in Wales or anywhere is lorry drivers, could solve all murder or nearly all, apart from people killed by constabulary in split-second wrong decision - I really thought that bunch of daffodils was a Hoechler and Koch machine pistol pointing right at my and my colleagues' and members of the public's heads and all my training came into play and so I shot the black bastard, fifteen times; that's alright, my son, you acted in the best traditions of the service, have yourself a quick promotion - just by putting all lorry driver in fucking Dartmoor, just round the bastards up, especially those cunts in ties at Eddie Stobart, lorry driver in fucking tie, who ever heard of such shit, that Stobard bastard, needs quick rub-down with housebrick, no wonder his drivers murder so many schoolgirls, eh, fucking bastard, You ‘as gotta work for me and you ‘as gotta wear this fucking tie under your brown overalls and you ‘as gotta salute every bastard who look in your cab - or better still go in fucking hotel with four stars on like Christian does and not sleep in smelly old van like Pikey. Maybe Pikey is Christian but act even less like Christian than proper Christian, like Presbyterian nutter in Downing Street, horrible fucking bastard – stanislav have many encounter with Pikey and is unfailingly bastard and put in jail should be. Is only any good for go and live next door to Tessa fucking Jowell and burn tyres in field. Get Pikey come and do tarmac in plumbing yard once and fuck me was like surface of fucking moon. Is rude, ignorant, thieving, cheating, smelly useless bastard and sonoffuckingbitch, every single one has ever met is nasty arsehole, is not prejudice, is what clever bastard call empiricism, never in whole life has met Pikey was good for fuck all - And also in Beemer can go up motorway at hundred and twenty miles an hour at 500 rpm and not trundle along at sixty with engine banging and shit bucket slopping everywhere and exhaust fume pouring in. Fucking rubbish. Can buy eight good BMW for cost of smelly old van falling to bits and never in a hundred years work right; wiring is always wrong, turn on tap and hazard lights flash, fridge is always fucked, cooker only fucking work on fucking Wednesday, never mind can get fish and chip, and if shunt has fucking thing falls apart like was made by life-sentence prisoner out of Swan Vestas and blow away down fucking motorway in splinter and bits of shit plastic and gay crewcut Motorway Old Bill in hi-vis jacket stand smirking, looking to make arrest, because all copper is bastard, right? as if forty grand blowing away down Southbound M6 is not enough shit for one day and not need some fag rozzer with vaseline on hair saying you will be reported for this and that and may be prosecuted ha-ha-ha. Can’t stand-up and walk about in BMW but can’t stand-up and walk about in camper van, either, only after fashion - stoop over, neck bent, knees bent, just right to get slip fucking disc and scream like bastard and wind up with blue badge on car and every bastard saying You ain’t disabled, disabled people no legs has, look, you legs has got, is fucking cheat and steal my parking space, I could go in there - or if is dwarf, like Hazel Blears. Fred West had fucking camper van and look at him, spent his spare time chopping people up, squeeze into box and bury under patio, like Brookside. Fred was made mad having to cope with life inside rubbish camper van, driving round Forest of fucking Dean, banging fucking head and choking on shit fumes and pots and pans falling out from cupboard every time is a bend, no fucking wonder was serial killer. Was very nice bloke by all accounts, apart from being raving lunatic and him and Rose killing people, mainly children. Bit like Tony and Imelda, only not so accomplished.

Retirement, something happens and every bastard wants to sleep in van at lochside, is like Candice Marie and Ke-e-e-ith from Nut in May, pair of stupid, fucked-up, calorie-counting, bird-watching, shitbrain, posturing useless mouthy bastard, only on wheels, Look at Us, here we are in our camper van, Silver FoxesRus. Can’t change fucking fuse at home and have to become best friends for life with builder and electrician and Godfather to all their horrible bastards or else house fall down but see a camper van and metamorphose into capable, derring fucking do Kings From Wild Frontier. Go round Lake District like Ferdinand fucking Magellan. And can take grandspawn, too; fuck me, quelle horreur, vanload full of Raymond and Candice in all shapes and sizes

Often see iron-muscled, greyhair German lesbian professors riding round High Jocklands, crying, on big, farty Harley-Davidsons and that’s OK, apart from being Dykes and Hermans, of course. Always seem to be crying over some lost Helga, I giff her all zat money und pussy-munching und still she haf run away mit filthy man, Donner und Blitzen, mit nasty cock und balls, ze dirty bitch, how I loved mein Helga und zis how she treat me is, I vill ride up to John of Groat and drive into ze Pentland Firth und drown, or maybe I vill go back in Stuttgart und check-out zat little minx, Heidi, mit ze pigtails. And is other band of nutters who jump on bicycle and pedal like demented hobgoblin speedfreaks up highest roads in the country shouting Gimme A Fucking Heart Attack, I Can’s Stand Being A Teacher For Another Twenty Years! Is fucking rubbish, driving in High Jockland in Summertime. Road is rubbish at best of time but filled-up with Herman lesbian Hells Angel and demented lunatic nutter on bikes and smug bastard in camper vans is like something off Prisoner programme with Patrick McGoohan, dead now, of course, but was nearly a hundred and so never mind. I’ll be seeing you. But not for a very, very long time.

These two are old friends otherwise should have said when they arrive, OK van is so good, sleep in fucking van and not come in stanislav gaff with proper toilet and bathroom and quadruple thickness Andrex bogroll and bed made from treewood with sheet and pillow made of Egyptian fucking cotton from Mark and Spencer and not made from Jap wipe-clean fucking plastic, like in van and Mr not have to go and stumble round in dark, thistly wilderness while Mrs takes dump in van and vice versa, look, is toilet each, both can go and dump, and not in fucking bedroom. Joined together in holy deadlock is all very well but is only for sick and health and rich or poor and not for content of bowels, unless, of course, is Liberal Democrat.

stanislav and Mrs stay in hotel often and is always en fucking suite arrangement, as though having shithouse in bedroom was great idea and height of civilisation and everything and get extra stars off thieving bastard at JockTourist Board and AA, as though ancestors come crawling out from sea and into cave and up fucking tree and across plain and make tools and farming and Internet just so’s can have shit in bedroom, fuck me, was better off in fucking ocean at least can swim away from turd and not have to pretend is no smell. Oh, fuck me, visitors, this is the Executive Master Bedroom, look, has fitted wardrobe and matching bedside table all made from best compressed Executive cardboard to match and tone-in with the one-inch skirting board, and this, this little plywood cupboard over here, in the corner, this is the shithouse, opening right up into the bedroom, it is a miserable stinky little shithouse but we call it the Ahn Sweet, windows? no, fuck me, it doesn't have any windows. But it has an automatic six-volt extraction fan which sometimes works but not very well. Soundproof? No, not really, the Mrs and I just love to lie here listening to each other farting and splashing and splattering away, it's quite romantic really, especially after a night on the Vindaloo and we both have a case of le posterieur flambee and it sounds like the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra is rehearsing in there. Clean my teeth ? Course I clean my teeth. And yes, I do keep my toothbrush in the Ahn Sweet shithouse. What of it?

But Mrs and stan would rather have third degree constipation than use ensuite for anything else but having shower in, and maybe steal towel or two. Is easy to go down to shithouse in bar or dining room and not stink-up bedroom which is bad enough, anyway, with dog, Buster,is old boy now and sometimes stink like rotten hedgehog although since several hundred pound of VetUlike dental work is not so bad, or only from one end anyway. Can never understand why anybody would think that combine shithouse and bedroom is good idea. But is better than ensuite camper van. Imagine, on some lonely mountainside is in pitch black and hubby goes for walk with dog so Mrs can dump in private and comes back and find Mrs sat outside van in gale and is saying Would give it half of fucking hour, darling, before go in there.

But it wasn’t just the van. Fuck me, no.

To be continued

5 comments:

lilith said...

Great. We are converting a Renault Master as I write :-) I draw the line at a portapotty though. Mebbe a small sharp spade...

I think Candice Marie's bloke was called Keeeeth. I can't camp without thinking of them at least once.

Old Holborn said...

Stan

I am going to publish your memoirs

http://bastardoldholborn.blogspot.com/2009/07/summer-with-stanislav-memoir.html

J R Hartley and his fly fishing can fuck off.

Daisy said...

OH,

Don't forget to illustrate it.

Brahan Seer said...

Pretty sure 'Candice Mawee's' bloke was "Geoffrey"

call me ishmael said...

No, Mr BS, Lilith is right, it was Kee-ee-ith; although Keith, Geoffrey and Raymond are all names from the same period, pre-Wayne, pre-Chardonnay, pre-Brooklyn. Bless.

Young mr stanislav has, unusually, amended his text.